


come shelter here for a while

by Nununununu



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Healing, In-universe AU, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29475240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/pseuds/Nununununu
Summary: Din has no idea where to go or what to do after losing Grogu. The only thing he can vaguely think of is the need for a cup of caf.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 120
Kudos: 117
Collections: DinCobb Valentine's Bingo 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In-universe coffee shop and bodyguard AU with a different first meeting, for the DinCobb Valentine's bingo. With thanks to the lovely people who mentioned tattoos over on the discord, because my mind went Yes <333

“Hey stranger,” The man props his elbows on the counter, face open and friendly as he waits for Din’s answer, “What can I get you?”

What?

Oh, right. Grogu is gone. Din had had no idea what to do next. He’d submitted to Boba slapping a bacta patch on his head back on the Slave I and then failed to get any rest, and then asked the other man and Shand to drop him off anywhere he could get caf. So here he is, on a planet whose name he doesn’t remember, standing lost like a stalled transport craft in a tiny marketplace stall tucked under a tarp some enterprising soul has strung up to create shade, barely enough room to shove a couple of wonky wooden stools in next to a long rectangular counter containing everything necessary to produce the drink and a couple of covered plates containing snacks for sale besides, and with someone Din would think is really attractive on any other day than today smiling at him.

His helmet is under his arm. He lifts his gaze up to the stranger, tries to make eye contact, feels his mouth wobble and drops his gaze again.

“Caf. Please,” He sounds distant even to himself. Shit.

“Yeah, got to say I’d guessed as much, buddy, but –” Something changes in the other man’s face, the wrinkles on his brow deepening and then smoothing out, the expressive mouth set within a generous beard quirking in what looks like concern, “Hey, you okay?”

Damn it, now Din’s worrying the barista.

“Mm,” He can’t say yes. He’s not okay, is he. He rather feels like he’ll never be okay again. He can only be grateful that the other man proves kind enough to give him a moment, turning away to busy himself pouring a helping of fresh steaming hot caf into a cup.

“Here,” Placing it down on the counter, the other man gestures at a small rack of various sugars and spices, still more than Din is accustomed to seeing, not one to generally stop long enough to purchase a drink like this. There was, in the past, also the situation with the helmet. “You want milk or anything to sweeten it up?”

His voice hasn’t quite gone back to that professional friendly tone from the beginning. Din strives to swallow past the lump in his throat, shakes his head numbly and accepts the cup, grateful for the heat that soaks through the palm and fingers of his glove.

Grogu had felt warm when Din had held him, although it had been cold on the Imperial ship. How long had the child been left like that in that bare, featureless room, cuffed and alone and without even a blanket?

“Thanks,” Din manages to whisper. Thanks to the barista for the drink. Thanks to the friends and allies who had helped him to rescue Grogu. Thanks for the fact Grogu had had that little warmth left to him, “I love you.”

This is what he’d felt, but hadn’t said. Should have said. Desperately hoped Grogu had somehow sensed anyway.

Regret is enough to near choke him.

Din doesn’t notice the pause from the man across the counter as he turns to force his feet into moving, just as he doesn’t realise that he’s spoken aloud.

Still, he does hear the other man’s quiet, “Hey.” Not a professional voice at all now. Something compelling about it, rich enough that, were he not already drowning, part of him might just want to sink within.

“Mm?” Managing to flick his gaze up from the glistening dark surface of the drink, Din wraps his other hand around the cup, holding onto it like a lifeline. He endeavours to make the sound into a question; it sort of works. Good enough for the other man to continue, anyway.

“Don’t want to intrude, but – You got someone who can just, you know, sit with you somewhere for a bit?” The barista tips his head. An emotion much like sympathy in his expression Din has to look away from quickly. “Else you’re welcome to just stay right here.” Soft grey hair is falling over the man’s forehead, sunlight from outside making it in under the tarp to draw attention to the earrings he wears. Ink on his arms under the black shirt he wears, bracelets around one wrist, a nametag on his apron in a language Din can’t read.

He’s a stranger. But Din finds himself sitting down slowly on one of the rickety stools all the same, grateful when the other man just smiles at him, and then occupies himself tidying the counter, serving someone else who ducks into the stall and then thankfully shortly after leaves.

After a while, a small plate appears by his elbow. There’s a little iced cake on it. The other man points a finger at it on Din’s enquiring eyebrow twitch.

“For you, if you want it.”

It goes terribly well with the caf, when he breaks off a mouthful. Grogu would have loved it.

Din sips the still warm drink and tries not to feel like he’s being pulled into an abyss.

*

Time passes or it seems to; more people come into the stall anyway, although the man behind the counter seems content to let Din remain there, a barely moving island the other customers must navigate past.

There are friendly voices and occasionally laughter. Someone reads a little from a holonovel they bring with them in an unfamiliar language. The barista – owner, it turns out – replies in the same. He’s always moving, always seeing to something or another, and the smell of the drinks he pours come to soak into Din’s senses like an unexpected balm.

By the time he revives enough to pull out some credits and put them next to the neatly stacked empty cup and plate, he must have been there an hour. The other man’s busy serving more of the little cakes to a gaggle of children.

Din breathes in at the sight of them. Breathes out again. It hurts, but – it doesn’t feel so very much like he won’t survive it now. Leaving with a quiet thank you it’s possible the other man doesn’t hear, Din eases out of the stall and away from the market.

The great red sun is starting to sink lower over the roofs of the city houses. He finds a park to walk in on the outskirts, just a simple place of stone and grass with a lake at the centre. The lingering taste of caf and sugar on his tongue.

He’ll see Grogu again, he’s promised as much. He just needs to get through the interim somehow.


	2. Chapter 2

He stumbles through the next few days and then has a bad morning, nightmares chasing him as he paces around the confines of his tiny room in the boarding house before stalking out of it, unable to bear how empty it is or being so alone.

Such things didn’t use to concern him – a berth was a berth and more than he usually bothered with, and, beyond the covert, the ship was the closest thing he had to a home.

That’s all gone now too.

Din finds his way back to the park, where the pale blossoms on the trees are opening, petals shaken looser by the fat raindrops that start falling upon them and his head. He stays for a while anyway, looking out at the grey water, until the sogginess of his flightsuit at the back of his neck gets bad enough that it chases him back to the boarding house to change.

He’s back out again once the rain’s easing up, feet leading him back to the marketplace and his nose having him stop at the same stall from before. The variety of caf the owner is brewing smells even better today, enough so that Din’s senses awaken a little as he breathes it in – deep chocolatey notes with a hint of spice. Chili, perhaps. He’s so used to everything being filtered by the helmet that it’s difficult to tell.

It’s back there in the boarding house; Din strives not to duck his head as he edges onto a stool and pretends not to feel its loss. It’s something to not think on though, when what else he is trying not to think on is so much worse.

“Oh – hey, just a sec,” He gets a flash of a smile from the owner that’s more gratifying than it probably should be, the man occupied towards the back of the stall with the partner to the stool Din’s sitting on, the thing turned upside down as he crouches next to it, fixing one of the legs.

“Oh,” Din’s interrupting, isn’t he; he shouldn’t have just presumed the stall was open and wandered on in, “I’m sorry.” He makes to go, deeply embarrassed.

“No, it’s –” Giving the leg of the stool a thump to check it remains in place, the other man straightens, wiping his hands on his apron. He’s wearing a blue shirt today, the straps of suspenders visible between the apron strings, and Din’s mouth dries a little at the sight of it and at the glimpse of further tattoos peeking out from the shirt’s open collar, curling up towards his neck like stylised flames. “It’s fine, we’re open; no worries. What can I get you?”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” He manages to get out.

“Believe me, I know trouble and you ain’t that.”

The smile he gets this time seems unreasonably warm, given he’s done nothing whatsoever to earn it. Din hunches into his shoulders in a way he hopes isn’t obvious, weathering it unsteadily, his stomach tightening – on edge from loss and the nightmares enough to feel like this stranger’s kindness might just shatter him.

No, the other man’s surely just being professional; probably was the whole time the last time around too. Din’s just too tangled up in everything and reading into things when he shouldn’t.

“Don’t you worry about it,” The other man says as if Din’s managed to answer and – oh hell, he was asked a question, wasn’t he. A cup of caf is slid over to him across the counter while he tries to unstick his tongue from his teeth enough to get words out. “Here, you just drink this.”

“How do you know it’s what I want?” Din’s mouth then decides to go and contrarily challenge, because he’s an idiot who can’t just say thank you. Then his hand guides him into taking a sip, careful because it’s hot, and – yes. Yes, it is what he wants. Very much so.

“Thought so,” There’s hint of pleasure, perhaps, in the other man’s eyes as he registers Din’s slight slump of relief armour no longer hides, his body seeking to melt into the drink, a momentary easing of the conflict of his echoing thoughts as his senses seem to similarly submerge. He’s helpless not to take another swallow, deeper this time and almost greedy for it, even as he’s aware of the owner’s silently crowing a little about his success, although not in a way that make Din want to huff and turn his back on him. It makes his cheeks heat instead. “Reckoned I’d pegged you right.”

“I don’t think you’ve pegged me at all yet,” Precisely what Din’s mouth then decides to reply only catches up with him a few seconds too late.

_Oh shit._

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he might just disappear into the ground. To his intense relief and gratitude – and maybe a touch of disappointment, if he’s honest about it, but which he’s trying not to acknowledge – he just gets a raised eyebrow for it and a glance filled with unspoken amusement. If it looks like there’s anything else there too, then that has to just be Din imagining things.

Retrieving a sweet something from under one of the covered plates and putting it onto a smaller dish, the owner pushes it over to him.

“Nah, I think I got you,” He gives Din a crooked grin too, “Said you loved me the first time we met, didn’t you.” Enough sunlight breaking through the rainclouds and coming into the stall that Din can seek to blame it on the fact he can’t keep eye contact, his gaze snagging on the bright spark of the man’s earrings, skittering off the coils of smoke inked like whispers on the side his throat, “I reckon I’ve got your number.”

_I love you._ He –

He really had said that, hadn’t he.

“No, that’s –” The warmth of the gentle teasing is abruptly lost on Din, the taste of the caf seeming to turn into ash in his mouth. Everything that had slumped about him stiffens back up, “I’m sorry. I was thinking about my –”

_My son_.

This is something he can’t say. The pain of even thinking it is squeezes his heart badly enough his knuckles whiten around the cup. Numb, he takes a bite of the pastry, as it’s that or cry. It’s one of the most delicious things he’s eaten in a long time, but that just makes him want to cry too.

“Hey now – hey,” Shit, the other man’s noticed. It gets him dropping the cloth he was using to wipe the counter and circling around it, coming to angle his long body down onto the repaired stool next to Din. He’s nowhere near overly close, yet the proximity is still enough to make Din feel like he’s both heating up and needing to flee, the wounded parts of him simultaneously aching for the comfort yet tempted to lash out at it in self-defence. Lashing out at himself, really.

As if registering the spiky contours of all of the raw edges Din has without the armour, the other man leans over the counter to serve himself a cup of the caf in a way that brings him casually back down to the stool with greater space between them after, sipping his drink while appearing to idly scan the menu board nailed to the supports that holds up the tarp, the list written in unfamiliar curving script Din can only partly understand through context. The other man giving him Din time to recover his composure a bit, another kindness offered as if such a thing is simple and one for which Din is intently grateful. Pierced through with an almost unbearable upwelling relief that his reaction didn’t send this person who is still truly a stranger into retreating. The thought of being left again even in such a manner enough to make Din feel like he might crumple completely into crumbs only fit to be swept away.

“Something happened, yeah?” The lines that run from the other man’s nose to the corners of his mouth deepen as he grimaces in what looks very much like sympathy, “Don’t got to tell me about it. But – like I said before. You got someone?”

“I lost him,” Din’s not going to give in to the tears that once again prick at the back of his eyes, he _won’t_. Staring at the remains of the caf in his cup helps, as does silently measuring his breathing, twitching in mild surprise when the other man tops the drink up – shit, his situational awareness is currently _nil_.

“Kriff, I’m real sorry,” Damned thing is, the other man sounds it too. And Din –

Din shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be taking up a stranger’s time and attention – a generous and attractive one, sure, but he doesn’t know Din and shouldn’t have to be dealing with this; doesn’t need or deserve Din dragging his problems into the man’s workplace with him.

“What’s your name?” Din asks quietly, before he can talk himself out of it.

“Cobb,” The stall owner – no, Cobb – angles himself back around on his stool to better face him, something that makes Din want to both turn his face away and into at once, the other man lifting a hand to tap the tag pinned to the top of the apron and its neat lettering, “You? I’d say I’d sure like to know the name of the man who loves me.” While there’s that glimmer of light-hearted teasing again, it’s even more gentle and there’s clear compassion in it, “Though yeah, I did reckon at the time that might not be for me.”

Din goes to open his mouth, to try to explain somewhat better.

“I’m sorry,” He can only repeat instead, voice thankfully a bit more normal. Eats some more of the pastry, gratified and a touch embarrassed all over again at just how much he must seem to need looking after, trying to swallow down just how unworthy of all this kindness he feels. Even if it is just Cobb having a good head for business – no, it doesn’t feel like it’s just that and it seems unfair on the other man for Din to keep trying to convince himself of it.

Shoving his palm against his forehead, he tugs at his hair. Breathes in sharply through his nose, eyes closed for a few seconds, before opening them back up again to give Cobb a rueful look, making himself make and hold eye contact, “I don’t mean to be like this.”

“Never thought you did,” He gets a look that’s at once sympathetic and expectant, and – oh, wait. Fuck. Another question gone unanswered as yet.

“Din,” Din winces even as he has to drop his gaze; realising what he hasn’t yet said. Introducing himself is a novelty that provides a sting of pain; no need to keep his name hidden behind an identity he no longer has, “The pastry is – really good. And the caf. And for, ah.” He can say this too. “Everything.” Pushes ahead before Cobb has a chance to react to that more than to straighten up a little, “Thank you.”

“Sure thing,” He gets a look for it that’s once again far warmer than he deserves, a look that makes Din’s skin prickle in a way that isn’t unwelcome, “It’s no big deal.” Cobb gestures at the marketplace beyond the stall, quieter now it’s past the early morning rush, before tugging unconsciously at his bracelets after finishing the last mouthful of his own caf, “You know, truth is I’m glad for the company too. Not much fun just being here on my own and I mean that – that and it’s not exactly hard spending time with you.”

It’s not a flirt, is it, although Din gets the impression it could maybe become one were he amenable and hadn’t near just been dissolving into his drink, or perhaps more likely if he were someone else. Can’t trust that he’s reading it right, even so.

“You, um,” He’s not one to feel inclined to make conversation as a rule, doesn’t truthfully _want_ to usually make it, but the distraction from his thoughts is very welcome right now, as is the fact someone he very much likes the look of is proving warm-hearted and considerate, and is being nice to him. Still, Din can’t begin to imagine how he himself could be easy to be with, especially in his current tangled state, even if the other man’s calm presence is soothing even though it likely shouldn’t be.

He forces down a sigh, knowing what he should do, “I ought to get on.” It’s the right thing.

It’s not the same as Grogu leaving. But that was the right thing too. Din knows this; it doesn't matter what he feels. Shouldn’t matter, anyway.

“Sure,” Cobb looks much as if he bites back a different answer, glancing down at Din’s hand as he fishes in a pocket of his flightsuit for some credits, placing them on the counter next to the cup he stacks on top of the plate. Damned if Cobb doesn’t seem a little disappointed, although that’s no doubt not actually the case. A little concerned still too, which admittedly seems more likely.

“I’m – okay,” Din can’t look at him as he says this, which probably doesn’t make it convincing, “Thanks again. For the drink.” The company too. Cobb’s, specifically. “The caf’s helped. And the pastry.”

Cobb’s smile tilts into something that warms Din more than if he were to step out from under the tarp and into the light of the great red sun.

“Come back tomorrow, yeah? And I’ll make you something especially.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild tw for depression

He wakes from more nightmares – the moment Grogu was taken and he failed to do _anything_ to save him; the moment Grogu was taken again. The moment he let him go. Opens his eyes to complete darkness and the utter certainty that his helmet and armour are animated somehow, contorted into a figure standing there at the edge of the bed, staring down at him in silent condemnation. In those small late hours when it feels like the entirety of the rest of the galaxy is sleeping, the thought is somehow terrifying.

He can’t shake it, dragging himself up early the next morning after very little more sleep, brewing himself a cup of thin, grainy tea in the ancient kettle that comes with the room, scooping the scum off the top with a spoon and finding the smell turns his stomach to the extent he can’t drink; it’s been this way with almost everything except the market stall caf. Din had spent the previous evening with a kernel of anticipation lodged in his stomach despite knowing he shouldn’t, hot with the awareness of Cobb’s promise and the little mystery it presents, but the bad night has transformed that sliver of excitement into a stone.

The helmet stares at him from the dresser. Leaving it in the room as he did yesterday puts it at risk of being stolen; his presence here in this small city hasn’t gone unnoticed. Or the beskar’s presence, anyway. And yet carrying it around tucked against his hip feels very much like he’s carrying his own head.

Din never should have left it. Even as he thinks this, he knows he’ll leave it again – a form of self-punishment that’s foolishly self-indulgent. Lose the helmet as well and he –

Well, he’s already lost it. Although he hasn’t yet, has he. Lost and not lost both at once. Missing and yet somehow still here. If he had any idea where any other Mandalorians were, he could return the helmet with the rest of the armour. That would be more useful and productive than keeping it here.

Perhaps they would melt it down. Reform it into something better, something useful – although it always has been less fallible than its owner. Previous owner. What is Din, to it?

He certainly feels like a ghost of himself in some ways. Still, it’s dragging him down and he shouldn’t let it. With this thought in mind, he forces himself into the refresher, into showering and shaving, flicking his gaze up towards the upper half of his face in the mirror and then back away before it connects. Into fresh clothes after – he’d made himself purchase a couple of battered second-hand flightsuits on realising he was potentially going to be staying on this planet some time and bashing the much damaged original in the sonic had stopped being enough to get out all the ingrained sweat and grit. The blood, too.

Perhaps he should wear something else. Din had stood in front of that clothing stall until the seller had demanded he either purchase something or move on, paralysed by the possibility of choice. Doesn’t let himself wonder what Cobb might make of it if he turned up to the other man’s stall in his armour, a thought avoided that nonetheless brings a tang of painful emptiness. Briefly contemplates the possibility of turning up wearing something less utilitarian than the flightsuit under the cape, the practicality and once almost comfort of the clothing now just another way to haunt him – doing up the collar a reminder of how he had instead undone it in order to hold Grogu against the top of his chest that time the kid seemed to come down with a fever for no reason Din could discern except for perhaps a simple childhood germ; the tab on the zipper at the neck a seemingly irresistible enticement for little fingers to pluck at. Pouches and pockets as if they existed purely for small hands to attempt to tuck themselves into in search of bounty that never was within.

Din wishes he’d hidden something inside a pocket, a sweet perhaps, for the child to find when Grogu was intent on the game that had always seemed to involve clambering all over him. Wishes it with the ache of hindsight and an upwelling of remembered flavours on his tongue – that pastry and the small iced cake. His own childhood had been no place for such little surprises; caring for Grogu is – was – a case of trial and error throughout.

The room in the boarding house wouldn’t be a bad place for the child. Largely free from things that might hurt him, were Din to remove the kettle, and a bed large in comparison to the berth gone along with the rest of the Razor Crest, the thin mattress of dubious quality but clean enough to let the kid jump on. A fly-specked mirror on the wall Din could have lifted him up to show him his reflection in. The few times Grogu had seen himself so, he’d been so delighted it had been impossible to tell whether he recognised himself or thought he had discovered another young one of the same species.

If Din hadn’t been having trouble focusing, breathing, seeing, his head whirling and senses rioting after the beating he’d received; if he’d been more than barely, vaguely, just about functioning, pushing himself into continuing as well as he could and not vomiting or falling over or just lying down on the floor and holding his son –

Even then. Grogu would still have chosen to leave.

He had _wanted_ to go with the Jedi, had wanted the chance to train and further his abilities. As much as his absence makes Din feel much like his diaphragm has been torn open and his ribcage dragged out of it, he respects the decision the child made. He’d been tasked with returning Grogu to his people. So even if it feels like a loss so immense it makes it hard for him to exist, as long as Grogu is happy and safe, then that’s the important thing.

If only they’d had more time. If only he _knew_.

Such thoughts are a downward spiral he might never get out of. Din drags himself out of the room, down the stairs and out of the boarding house instead, the sheer size of the grey sky above the rooftops and cold air hitting him like a slap to the face as the door shuts behind him, and he’s tempted to screw his eyes closed for a moment and then peek through his fingers, to divide the world into the much smaller portion he saw through the visor and block out the rest of it.

His hands are shaking. Everything is just so much without the helmet and also so little. So many things he doesn’t know any more without the HUD, so many elements gone. And so much extraneous noise and colour and brightness gained whether he’d have them or not. He’d been unaware of just how much it automatically compensated and adjusted for until he lost it. Or rather, he’d forgotten.

He’d been used to a life without it once, long ago.

His feet know the way to the park, the market and the library in this world without a name only to him. The fact it’s barely past dawn only catches up with him once he’s walked a fair distance, the windblown streets empty except for the usual detritus of a city down on its luck and a few rough sleepers who grunt at his passing and curse as they turn their faces to the wall. He’s cursed at from a window as well; ducks his head and walks faster. It’s different than the curses that used to be flung at him when he was in the armour, of course it is. Tugging the cowl up round his mouth feels like a failed endeavour when all of the rest of his face is out there for anyone to see.

No one’s looking. It isn’t important, really. It only means anything to him. It’s difficult to keep his expression as blank as his insides feel. Difficult to know what his face is doing as he steps into the park, grass soft and damp earth soft beneath his booted feet. He’s been here often enough by now there is a faint series of expanding mud stains on the floor of his little rented room, something he will probably get in trouble about, marking out the tracks of someone pacing like they’re trying to escape.

The water is very still; he wonders how deep it is. What would happen if he were to take his boots and socks off and step in. It’s spring here on this part of the planet, perhaps, judging by the pale blossoms still caught in the gradual process of working to unfurl. A black insect the size of his thumb lands on one when he looks at them, crawling into the secret heart of it. A bee.

Stripping a glove off, Din reaches up to touch his fingertips very gently to the outside of the blossom. Feels a very faint tremor; the insect moving within. The petals almost don’t feel real and feel too real at once without the barrier between them and his skin. The bee crawls out of the flower and onto his forefinger. Grogu probably would have eaten it, wouldn’t he.

“Now wouldn’t be the time for me to make you jump, would it,” A voice says behind him, low and calm, and Din definitely does startle, although he manages to keep his hand from jolting and scaring away the insect.

“I – shouldn’t have touched it, should I,” He knows who is standing there behind him, he _knows_ it, even as he has no idea how it’s come to be. The bee brushes his nail with its antennae, investigating its perch.

“Mm,” Cobb shifts to stand beside him, around an arm’s distance away. Garbed in a red shirt and scarf today under a brown jacket, the splash of colour almost shocking against the monochrome background, and a half smile crooking his mouth as he glances back at Din, “Known to give a nasty bite, they are, and they got them a powerful sting to boot. But they’re also precious and easy to spook, and can die of it.”

“Of the shock?”

The concept is – not unbelievable. Din breathes in shallowly and the air stings.

“Yeah,” Cobb’s gaze turns to the insect, as if somehow sensing this, “Don’t see as many of them as I’d like to, these days.”

“You’ve been here long? On this planet,” Addressing the bee in place of the other man makes this easier, helps Din keep his tone somewhere approaching casual; helps him pretend he can perhaps borrow a bit of Cobb’s steadiness. His heart thumping unreasonably.

“Longer than intended, yeah,” Gaze flicking up to give Din a bit of an inscrutable look, Cobb holds his own hand up in silent request.

The insect seems happy to crawl off Din’s forefinger and onto Cobb’s, resettling with a single beat of its wings, Din’s skin prickling with the ghost of an imagined touch. The warmth that must be there in the other man’s skin. He can’t even remember the last time he touched anyone without his gloves on other than Grogu and now this bee.

His finger had come so close to Cobb’s he could almost feel it.

“All right?” The other man’s voice is once again far more gentle than Din deserves.

“You said you were going to –” Din’s mouth decides to start, before he changes it to, “Am I keeping you?”

That’s –

Wait.

A tiny twitch of Cobb’s lips; Din’s close enough to identify it, although the mix of emotions that flash across those varicoloured eyes might once more be him imagining things.

“ _From work_ ,” Din gets out desperately, right when Cobb opens his mouth to reply, and resists the urge to slap his hand over his face, “I mean. Am I. Keeping you from work.”

_Kriff_ , but a part of him rather wants to keep the other man here for longer, for as long as Cobb will permit it; to keep him near and maybe even nearer and to actually touch him.

“No,” Cobb lingers over the consonant as if tempted to say something else completely, “You’re not keeping me. From work.”

Surely Din must be wildly mistaken in thinking the clarification sounds deliberate.

“Anyway, I promised you breakfast, didn’t I,” Shaking himself, Cobb raises his hand to his mouth and blows lightly on the insect, sending it gently off, the bee buzzing around Din and on its way. Cobb’s smiling when Din looks back at him, “Though it doesn’t have to be breakfast, if later is better or – were you planning on coming by the market today? I don’t want you to feel in any way obliged.”

It’s the first time Din’s seen him a little wrong footed.

“I – was,” It makes something surge within him when perhaps it shouldn’t, something warmer than he should feel for a stranger. But Cobb’s not really a stranger any more, is he. Not completely.

And not in the way Din’s a stranger to himself, most definitely.

“You promised me,” Din says as such, a flash of stubbornness that surprises even him.

“Sure did,” Cobb’s smile just deepens a bit. Turning to lead the way, he pauses, “Oh wait –” Then his hand is reaching up towards Din’s face, pausing before making contact as he cocks his head. “May I?”

Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Yes,” Din’s mouth is dry as dust. If his heart beats any harder, he won’t be able to hear anything.

But Cobb doesn’t touch his face. He lifts his fingers up a little higher and then he’s moving them very gently through Din’s hair, grazing just lightly over his temple, the warmth Din had _known_ he would feel sinking into him almost painfully.

He wants with a longing so piercing it’s almost unbearable.

“Flower in your hair,” Sure enough, Cobb’s holding one of the little blossoms as he brings his hand back down, and his gaze is still calm and so steady but also – also, impossibly, _affectionate_ , and Din –

Din feels a rush of something go through him, like he’s coming back to life a little and it _hurts_.

But he’s also so very grateful for it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An as yet untagged bingo square hinted at in this chap :) Also the 'bodyguard' bit is getting there, if not quite yet

Cobb cooks them hotcakes on a griddle, fat sizzling in the pan as it heats on the small single burner he balances on the far end of the counter while Din perches on the same stool from the previous day and feels his mouth water a little.

The same stool as before, but on the other side of the counter this time. There on Cobb’s insistence, the market not yet opened for the day, a couple of other stall owners readying their wares down the way, far enough off that little of their talk carries over, and the majority of the stalls still shuttered or covered over with tarp.

The first of the hotcakes smells _good_ as it cooks, as does the strong leaf tea Cobb lets Din brew for them both, scraping himself together and finding a little more of him than it feels like there was before, insistent on helping in this way he shouldn’t screw up. It gets a smile of gratitude from Cobb that nearly sends Din inside his cowl, his cheeks flaring with heat.

Damn it, but it feels like it’s been _so_ long and yet it’s only been less than a week since he lost almost everything. Yet as a few drops of rain fall off the edge of the tarp overhead, accumulated from the last shower, it doesn’t feel quite as much like Din is going to crumble and shatter. Caught despite himself by the sight of Cobb pausing to watch them, smiling at a rounded red-and-white winged insect that crawls up onto the counter.

“Come now, off with you,” It receives a similar gentle farewell to the bee, while the scrawny loth-cat that shortly after squirms under the near side of the stall to yowl loudly in demand of its share of breakfast and half gives Din a heart attack is awarded a more convincing shoo, although Din sees the other man stoop to rub its ragged ears after the telling off, Cobb tossing it a crust of something it pounces on and gleefully trots off with, held in its mouth like a prize.

“Darned critters,” Cobb’s smile belies the complaint as he cleans his hands again and casts an eye at the pan after, the hotcake going golden as it puffs up, “Nothing but trouble.”

“Is that what I am?” Din asks instead of observing _you like them._

“A darned critter?” He gets a sideways grin from Cobb that makes the other man’s eyes crinkle, “Or trouble?” A plate gets plopped in front of Din and the hotcake slid onto it, far larger than anything he’d cook himself, enough so that he blinks. “You know for all I said before, I’m starting to think the jury’s out on the latter, friend.”

“I thought I _wasn’t_ trouble,” Din can only protest even as he keeps a close eye on the bowl containing the batter until Cobb pours a fresh lot onto the griddle. He can say it, even if he has to resist the urge to bite his lip first, “Do you. Want half of this one.” And then, because apparently he can’t possibly stop there, “I didn’t realise it was going to end up that big.”

Oh. No. _Kriff_. Not again.

Din might as well just plonk his head down on the counter and be done with it.

“You –” This time Cobb definitely reacts; there’s no doubt about it given he looks like he might just about near swallow his tongue. His valiant “You watched it cooking” not only contains a bit of a wheeze, but clearly stands in for so many other more colourful responses it seems like it near physically pains him not to say.

“Are you,” Din drags a breath in with a massive effort of his own. Doesn’t glance down at Cobb’s lap – not covered with the usual apron this time, for all he’s cooking and the jacket was discarded early on – even though his imagination has abruptly decided to launch into running overtime and he’s almost insanely tempted to try to sneak a peek. Aims a determined stare at the hotcake instead, the back of his neck and ears burning. “Are you. Going to have some.”

Damn it, given his previous comment even that sounds loaded.

“ _If only_ ,” Cobb can’t possibly bury something much like this in a hearty gulp of his tea; Din has to be mishearing. He gets the other man waving him – and his hotcake – off, before pointing at the latter with the spatula and clearing his throat. “All right. Think we got a little side-tracked there. Your breakfast’s going cold, whatever size it is.” So he’s not going to share.

Fair enough; it’s foolish to feel disappointed. There’s a faint tinkle of cutlery, the knife set for Din next to his plate seemingly taking on a life of its own and shifting against the fork, although he barely registers it.

“You want butter or honey? Both?” The spatula moves onto determinedly indicating each of the options in turn, for all Cobb’s voice softens like he somehow senses Din’s internal slump, “Else you can mix most of those there spices with sugar. Don’t tell me you’re going to eat it plain.” Apparently recovered, his grin twitches into something much like he’s imparting a secret, “I _know_ you like sweet things, Din. And to go back to your original query, I’m well starting to think you might just have a fair amount of trouble tucked away inside you, yeah.”

The sound of his name in Cobb’s voice informs Din he could well _be_ in trouble indeed.

“How do you know that? I mean. About – uh,” Damn, that could result in so many answers, “The sweet things.” Din has to bite down on the urge to respond to the last part of Cobb’s remark, as otherwise he’s just going to end up saying something he shouldn’t all over again. He’s _not_ still blushing or so he can at least attempt to tell himself – he’s just a touch overheated from the steam from the tea and the warmth rising up from the hotcake, that’s all.

Accepting the butter when it’s placed in front of him, he contemplates the fact he would have just eaten the hotcake plain were such choices not presented to him. Judging by how much he likes the smell, it would have tasted good too.

With butter and then, on Cobb’s raised eyebrow, a tentative mouthful of honey from the small unmarked pot that gets produced off the far end of the shelf that runs under this side of the counter, the hotcake tastes _better_.

“All right?” Cobb doesn’t make much of a pretence of not watching Din’s experimentation with the hotcake. Din hadn’t even known himself that he liked sweet things, not having had much of the opportunity or inclination to sample them before the last few days, although he’d allowed Grogu to feed him a crumbly handful of one of the kid’s blue macarons, just enough of the helmet tipped up to let determined little fingers succeed. While most of it had ended up smushed on Din’s chin, the child had seemed very pleased.

“Yeah,” Din is, he’s almost painfully surprised to realise, somewhere approaching all right. He digs his fork into the hotcake almost viciously to ward off a sting of tears provoked by sharp-edged gratitude, hiding the fact his voice comes out husky with emotion in a swig of his own tea, “All right. Thank you.”

Glancing up at Cobb’s lack of reply, he finds the other man’s attention centred on him yet more firmly.

“You got a –” Cobb’s reaching out before Din knows it, although he registers it within a moment and holds still all the same. Heartbeat picking up in contrast. “Bit of honey here,” Cobb’s finger indicates the corner of Din’s mouth, not touching until Din fails to do anything about it himself, and then they just look at each other for a moment while something inside him resonates with unmistakable longing.

It takes Din jerking his chin in a shaky nod for Cobb to go ahead and swipe at the stickiness with his thumb, glancing down at his hand after. Din _aches_ for Cobb to – to put his thumb in his mouth, to lick at it, and –

He shouldn’t be having such thoughts.

It feels almost like something – the ground – under the legs of his stool moves, just a fraction. The jars of spices rattle on the counter; Cobb jerks his head up, giving them a look.

“Think I, ah, just made it worse,” He’s pushes a clean cloth over at Din right after, “Sorry.” The careful angle of his mouth implies the possiblity he is, in fact, not. Still, if there’s a touch of colour high in Cobb’s cheekbones too – well, he is near enough sitting over the griddle, and he busies himself tidying up a couple of things from preparing the batter.

“You didn’t,” Din’s voice comes out soft, however he might will himself to sound firm, not knowing how to draw the other man’s attention back to him; to reassure him he didn’t overstep. A different kind of smell reaches his nose, “Hotcake’s burning.” 

“Shit!” This gets Cobb launching into motion, saving his cooking just before it can become a disaster, insisting on making Din another helping after he’s set aside the overdone one Din has a sneaking suspicion will later be served to the cat, and then they get to have a light-hearted argument about who indeed is going to eat the next one to be successfully produced.

“It’s yours,” Din insists for a fourth time, undeniably pleased with himself when it gets Cobb relenting on an eye roll, distracting him with “Will you tell me about the honey,” before daring to steal himself a corner when it’s cut.

“Oi!” Interrupting himself only partway into what sounds like it’s going to be a whole story about local hive maintained by several of the market sellers, Cobb ends up near choking on his mouthful at Din’s unconvincing attempt to look innocent while no doubt poorly concealing his mouthful, an expression far more suited to Grogu.

He’s never heard Cobb laugh before.

“That’s outright thieving, that is!” The finger pointed sternly at him startles Din by next moving in to bump the tip of his nose with contrasting gentleness, an action that makes him blink, unable to focus – something else that the HUD also used to automatically account for. His nose feels as if it hums with the echo of the unexpected touch after, as does the corner of his mouth, like they’ve kept a fraction of the warmth of Cobb’s skin with them, his skin prickling as something inside him feels like it revives that bit more. He feels _alive_ and it’s good, it’s good, even as it hurts.

And even the hurt itself isn’t bad.

“You _are_ trouble, aren’t you,” Cobb’s gaze can be called nothing but _approving_ , the remains of his hotcake forgotten on his plate for all he’d scolded Din for dawdling over his food. His voice gone golden like that honey, smooth and low, “Guess I did peg you wrong.”

“I still don’t think you’ve done that at all yet,” Din makes the choice to say it, this time round, and is rewarded by a glinting look from those varicoloured eyes that has the heat still in his face and neck expanding to take over the rest of his body.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer chapter and a surprise appearance by an untagged character

He walks the city streets throughout the zenith of the day, skirting the somewhat more affluent area he comes across where hired guards eye him with hands close to their blasters, the wary inspection he’s given not particularly different to any other passerby, something Din doesn’t know whether to be amused by or not.

He slips in behind a Twi’lek carrying a basket of bones for broth balanced on her head between her lekku as she turns down a narrower side street leading away from the larger houses, one with washing strung between faded flags on fraying lines between the towering tenement blocks, makeshift windows held together with tape flung open to let in the midday air and sagging balconies seemingly occupied everywhere by people chatting, smoking, cursing each other, smiling, laughing, tossing things over to each other over the heads of those passing below. There are puddles underfoot and trash on the sides of the street, and a horde of grubby children barrel past him screeching, intent on some form of game. Only two try to pick his pockets; he catches one little wrist gently, shakes his head, and the kid smiles before scampering away.

“Hey,” Din gets out belatedly, not knowing whether it’s a protest or a request for the kid to stop and let him – what? Get them a plate of noodles from the shabby little room opened up to the street he discovers after the next few steps, the door pushed back to let out a strong spicy smell that has his stomach grumbling as if it’s forgotten all about the hotcakes, someone hunched and ancient inside stirring a pan on a single burner much like Cobb’s, and a dozen other bodies jammed into the tiny space, slurping the steaming noodles out of an assortment of mismatching bowls.

The ancient being calls something in a guttural language that sounds caught between demand and welcome, but Din shakes his head to this too and lets his boots carry on taking him down the street. It grows claustrophobic after a while; he’s unused to being somewhere so narrow and packed with people, mould and grime colouring the walls of the buildings leaning in towards each other as seeking to touch roofs far up above. Before, in his helmet and armour, people would generally either make a concerted attempt not to touch him, or a deliberate try at it that was never friendly. Now he’s bumped into and brushed past so many times he has to duck down another side street just to escape, his heart pounding unreasonably hard, in quite a different way than it had been earlier back with Cobb.

“Looking for work, stranger?” The looming figure that greets Din there from an unmarked doorway goes to catch his elbow with no small amount of presumption, the smirk on their craggy face implying a variety of possibilities as to what that ‘work’ could be, while the faint echo of mingled jeers and tipsy cheery coming up from the staircase behind them leading to a basement level narrows it down to the invitation to be beaten up for other people’s amusement and monetary gain.

“I’m not looking for a fight,” Shrugging them off, Din is awarded a lopsided grin as if the other figure hears a ‘right now’ he doesn’t speak.

“Down on the docks then,” He’s told with a seemingly genuine helpfulness he definitely doesn’t expect. It’s as good a way to head as any, the labyrinth of the poorer quarters opening up after a few more turns to the docks as promised, and with them the sea.

He’s never seen water like this without the visor. As wide as his vision now is, the sea’s dizzying, even choked as this section of it is with boats; the sudden slap of salt air previously unnoticed except for its fishy undertone mixed with the humdrum stink of a working city.

“All right there?” A woman pops up by his elbow when Din opens his eyes, not quite sure when they’d closed. She’s squinting at a tall ship coming in to the docks, one built only for water and not flight, people onboard calling out to each other as they swarm over the deck, signalling to others on land who seem ready in wait.

Ready to unload it, Din realises a moment later, registering the crates stacked on the deck, with more to be retrieved from below judging by the flurry of activity. Not having an answer for the woman, he just glances back at her and gets a snort for it, planting her hands on her hips.

“Yeah, you’re all right,” The woman doesn’t pause to give him time for a breath in, let alone a response he hasn’t caught yet quite up to formulating, “Handful of credits for each half hour you help unload; you don’t count them too close and I don’t report what you done to the harbour master, unless your name’s going to come up on some wanted list and in which case you’d better scram unless you want my boot lodged up your arse – fair?”

“Not at all, by the sound of it,” Din’s mouth is threatening to quirk. He already has no plan to touch any reward from the capture of Gideon – all of it to be set aside for if Grogu should need it – so could do with the credits and the thought of simple physical labour is more appealing than the hazardous boredom of ring fighting, although with a similar lack of expectation that he provide things like identity papers. Just what he could do with really, providing she does pay. “All right.”

“Said you were, didn’t I,” The woman rolls her eyes, although she’s also smiling out of one corner of her mouth like it might be contagious and informs him of her name, before nudging him towards the waiting labourers and bustling off to talk the next person into likewise lending a hand.

Din helps haul crates for the next few hours, getting satisfyingly sweaty for his pains. His back aching by the end of it and a decent handful of credits to shove into an internal pocket of the flightsuit for more insurance from sticky fingers, the momentary opening of the zip letting out a little of the build-up of heat.

“Hey, I don’t need to see that!” Peli swats at his shoulder as if Din’s revealed anything more than the first of the underlayers beneath, and talks him into agreeing to come back tomorrow for when the crates – emptied out and then refilled – need to be loaded back on board again.

He can’t honestly say he’s unhappy about the idea, his presence having gone pleasantly ignored this time round, unremarkable among the varied assortment of labourers, interrupted only by Peli wandering past to offer cheerful nagging, a trio of droids skittering around her ankles and chittering to themselves before she unleashed them with a nod onto the ship.

Ducking into a cramped public restroom afterwards, Din wrinkles his nose at how disgusting it is, tries not to breathe, washes his hands in the dubious water that cranks from the rusty tap and then picks his way back out again over a sleeping figure hunched in the doorway, having had second thoughts on following through with his intention on splashing his sweaty face. His forearm over his forehead will do – the flightsuit could do with a good wash later, anyway – and then he’s free to get thoroughly lost on trying to get back to the part of the city he might just be claiming in some small way for himself – the boarding house and the library, the park and the marketplace.

The street he picks at random opens up not to the park as he’d vaguely hoped, but to the unexpected sight of a small copse of thorny fruit trees growing within a fenced-off area with a padlock holding shut the bolt on the gate and several notices in the local language nailed onto it – not much of a deterrent, although no one proves to have currently climbed over the fence; the place is deserted except for some kind of long-tailed rodent and a fair-sized slatted box that brings to mind that beehive Cobb had described while they each made their way through a second hotcake.

There’s a buzzing under Din’s feet that isn’t from bees. Almost a rumble, something he hadn’t noticed until he stopped walking to look at the fruit trees, reminding him a little of how the ground had shuddered under his stool when he’d thought of – of Cobb, licking – maybe even sucking –

Shit. Now isn’t the time to be thinking on that – he should probably never be thinking on that. And besides, it isn’t the same. This feels somehow more like a warning. Din’s boots are taking him away from the small orchard before he knows it, towards another street he doesn’t recognise yet this time hopes will take him to the market, something he’s proved right about when the tarp-covered stalls come into sight in a gap between buildings.

The ground is still rumbling when he gets there. The standoff Din discovers ongoing in the centre of the square doesn’t surprise him and nor does the small crowd of late afternoon shoppers all intent on watching a posturing group of armed figures looming over an older half-human woman Din vaguely recognises as the owner of the fruit stall, their hands tauntingly close to their weapons as she faces them down with nothing but her folded arms and the bitterness of her glare, a couple of other sellers hovering nearby as if half supporting her and half sheltering behind her, their shoulders hunched with tension –

And Cobb over by his own stall, striving to carve a path towards the lot of them despite a couple more gang members at his sides, gloved hands hard on his shoulders, resentful fury writ across every inch of his expression. The insistent voices of the old woman and the gang members cut across the cautious murmur of the assembled watchers in that language Din doesn’t know, but is starting to pick up. He knows ‘no’ well enough and ‘stop’, and there’s no need for fine detail to understand threat.

He doesn’t have his helmet, his armour, any more weapons than a knife and his blaster. Given the throng between him and Cobb, neither of these would be much good, and there’s too much likelihood of an onlooker stepping in the way of a shot to take out the gang members threatening the old woman if it comes to it, and the crowd reads as one less likely to surge to join a fight than to panic – there’s more fear here than the situation necessarily warrants at first glance. Something more going on than is visible on the surface. And the rumbling underfoot is getting worse.

The support struts of the stall next to Din rattle against each other, dust falling off the edge of the ceiling tarp as a result, a handful of nearby watchers shifting aside warily, opening up a space closer to the confrontation for him to step into if necessary.

To intrude before then would only add complication to an already strained situation that doesn’t need any nudge towards a tipping point. Holding back as such, Din watches the gang members, watches the old woman and her companions; watches Cobb. Sees Cobb scuff his wrist over his face like he can wipe away his anger, and then the other man’s smiling, shrugging off the hands from his shoulders with a lifted eyebrow and a word, and stepping in smoothly towards the old woman as the assembled watchers make room for him to pass. His hands half-upraised in a gesture that seems more stalling than it does surrender, a look of something almost empty crossing his gaze quite in contrast with the hook of his smile.

Whatever he says, it makes the gang members snort or spit on the ground or shuffle up to him to attempt intimidation with a leer – he just raises his chin – but then they’re leaving, one of them filching a cactus-apple off the fruit stall Cobb darts in and steals right back, a simple twist of his fingers scooping it out from the pouch at the thief’s belt. It’s returned to the old woman with a bit of a smirk she rolls her eyes at, shaking her head and sending him off with a shoo when he tries to check on her, her huff one that’s both a little cross with him and reluctantly amused. A wealth of relief and concern that only fills her expression once Cobb’s turned away to speak with the couple of other sellers who had stood behind her.

Din can’t say when the ground stopped shaking. The great red sun breaking through the clouds scatters a haphazard pattern of warmth and shadows over the marketplace. He has to close his eyes again for a moment just at the feel of it on his skin.

“Hey trouble,” A voice drawls low and warm near to his ear before he’s blinked them open again, a smile in it that Din has to tell himself can’t be just for him.

“I don’t think you can possibly be referring to me,” Din says as mildly as he can possibly make it when his mouth is busy striving to curve into a smile of his own regardless of anything else, his chest squeezing as his heart batters hard at his ribs, “You seem to be plenty of trouble yourself.”

Cobb – Cobb’s not only spotted Din but made his way over, has deliberately sought him out, and that means –

Din has to inform himself very strictly that it doesn’t have to mean anything.

“Only a little bit,” Cobb’s not making any effort to conceal his grin, Din discovers on turning to look at him, the dispersing crowd obliging the other man to stand well within arm’s reach. Hotly aware of the slight height difference as he tilts his head up to look at him, helpless not to take in the scar on Cobb’s temple and the metal in his ears, and a glimpse of more of the tattoos under the opened buttons at the top of his shirt – another red one, but short sleeved this time, showing off swirls of monochrome smoke and fire licking up the length of his arms. What could be claws here or scales there, or even teeth – some great creature lurking amongst the flames.

Din aches to be alone with him like this morning, aches at the quivering feeling that rises inside him, his mind racing with the sudden irrational certainty that, if he doesn’t say the right thing, Cobb will say his farewell and slip back away. He can’t –

No. He doesn’t want that to happen; it’s not that he ‘can’t’. There’s a difference. And he mustn’t be selfish.

“Getting towards the end of the day,” Cobb says, and if he steps even closer, that must be only because someone hurries past, “Stall technically shut early because – well, reckon you caught some of the drama – but that don’t mean I can’t make you a caf.”

Din can’t keep him – and this is a ‘can’t’. Shouldn’t, too. Even if those newly gained credits are burning a hole in his pocket, suggesting he can well afford that drink and thereby sneakily gain the other man’s company along with it for a while. Even if there’s something about Cobb’s gaze that suggests he might well refuse to accept should Din seek to pay.

“You’d really be willing to open up just for me,” Din’s mouth decides to go and enquire, and – oh that’s –

“Oh sweetheart,” This time he gets Cobb well and truly breaking into laughter, although the way his tongue touches his teeth right after has Din forgetting any thoughts of hoping for that rumble to come back and the ground to open up to swallow him, “Just for you – anytime, yes.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out the absolutely [gorgeous art](https://twitter.com/sunfishstick/status/1365486148198535168) the ultra talented sunfishstick created, just heart-melting, I'm so happy TuT <333

_Sweetheart_.

Din can’t stop thinking about it, his chest burning with the memory of the word. Biting his lip to hide the smile that keeps trying to creep its way onto his face as he angles himself down onto the same stool as before, only hunching into his shoulders a little when the last of the shoppers glance in on their way out of the market, Cobb grimacing apologetically as a couple of other stall owners tug him aside for what looks like an amount of friendly ribbing while he seeks to wave them off.

Din’s a little amused to see them fail to let him get away with this, Cobb obliged to submit to being dragged down round the neck for a one-armed hug and an elbow in the ribs by someone Din thinks might be the second-hand holobook seller, dancing away in order to pull a face that only very poorly conceals the fact he’s on the verge of laughter. The sight of Cobb then shooing his friends off with fresh determination, pacifying the second of them with a kiss to the cheek, has Din biting down on his lip that much harder. Hastily seeking to absorb himself in the admittedly somewhat overwhelming selection of teas stacked in their tins on the shelf running under the counter as a means of distraction, rather than allowing himself to consider this particular combination of things –

To consider Cobb and kissing.

Damn it. There’s no ‘allow’ about it; Din’s mind is whirling with the very concept, close to overflowing, something deep in his stomach going tight and shivery both at once. _Of course_ he’s considering it.

Of course this is something he’s never done.

Stealing another peek over at Cobb results in Din scrabbling to remind himself at the last moment to only move his eyes and not his whole head, something he semi-achieves, distracted as he is by the tall, slender figure the other man cuts where he stands with his back momentarily turned. It’s easier than perhaps it should be as such for Din to let himself linger on the breadth of the other man’s shoulders and to take in the contours of Cobb’s body, and how well and how naturally he inhabits his clothes. To consider the particular angle of Cobb’s hips and the snug curve of his ass, all too enticing under the trim fit of today’s pants – although contemplating these specific areas gets a guilty flush spreading all the way from Din’s ears down his neck to his chest.

Gets him thinking of just what he’d unintentionally come out with earlier. Of _willing to open up just for me_ and of Cobb’s _anytime_ , _yes_.

Just for Din.

“ _Kriff_ ,” Din keeps this a whisper; a breath barely enough to stir his lips. Because just the very thought of it –

Just the very thought of Cobb – opening up. Of Din opening Cobb up _._ Of getting Cobb underneath him – or of Cobb climbing on top of him perhaps, straddling Din’s hips. Of Din dragging things out, taking it slow enough to discover if the other man will shudder and whine. Of taking advantage of the opportunities presented by his helmet being off; of touching and tasting and – licking and sucking, yes –

Din never thought he’d actually be in some way _glad_ for the lack of his helmet.

_“O-oh,”_ Considering the nature of his thoughts, the sudden red-cheeked realisation that his body is apparently feeling recovered enough from heartbreak and the battle with Gideon’s droids to start to respond is by rights probably far more surprising than it really should be.

Now is most definitely and absolutely _not_ the time for him to be getting –

“ _Fuck_.”

An unambiguous shiver of the ground beneath Din’s boots travels right into the soles of them and up the legs of the stool serves as a momentary – if not precisely sufficient – distraction from this latest revelation.

And – okay, what?

The ground stirs beneath his boots again like a fractious blurrg, an inexplicably localised shrug that sends the sugar and spice jars on the rack on top of the counter rattling against one another. In the aftermath of that strange quake, there’s a _chink_ as one of the jars takes it upon itself to tip over against the jar next to it.

Then the next jar topples over – and another, loud in the abrupt silence, setting off a sequence in which they all seem intent on taking part.

Din’s left hand is already snapping out before thought can catch up with the long-taught habit of action and reaction, catching the first jar when it falls and transferring it onto the shelf running under the counter, unsurprised to find himself necessitated to next dart his right hand out to snag a second jar, and then others, falling faster now and all set to smash and scatter their contents at his feet.

As swiftly as Din works to catch them, it shortly becomes apparent he’s going to run out of hands.

“Oh shit,” Cobb’s exclamation proves the cascade hasn’t gone unnoticed – and then he’s there, back in the stall, slim hips twisting entirely too distractingly as he winds around the counter to come to a hasty stop next to Din. Hands outstretched to help, a laugh lodged in his voice that’s more strained than he’s seeking to have it sound, “Can’t afford to lose _another_ lot of these, damn it.”

The side of their hands meet briefly in their attempt to save the jars, skin whispering against leather, Din hard-pressed not to react.

“I didn’t –” There’s no explanation he can either think of or give; the quake might have knocked the jars to the side of the rack, but it didn’t seem enough to knock them both over the lip of it and off, and the counter is of a size and heavy enough it would require a reasonable amount of effort to move it.

“Didn’t think for one moment you did,” Juggling spices, Cobb tosses them lightly back up onto the counter along with some of the sugars, the little jars landing with seemingly instinctive accuracy. There’s a faint bloom of colour smeared high across his own cheekbones when Din chances a look up at him, knowing just how likely he is to be caught at it now and yet still so very used to telegraphing his movements, given how he’d needed to emphasise when wearing the helmet and armour at the times he wished to make the direction of his gaze or opinion clearly known.

Catches Cobb shooting a look down at him at just the same time, an expression in the range between rueful and considering in the glint of the other man’s eyes and press of his lips, a look that has Din’s heart galloping all over again.

“Do you –” He doesn’t even know what he’s going to _say_. Risky territory for certain, as he’s had occasion to learn all too often since meeting this man; a lesson that’s never previously been required, Din chomping down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop whatever is set to emerge from his mouth now.

“I reckon maybe I should –” Cobb is saying at the same time, breaking off eye contact to aim a hard stare at the now emptied spice rack as if wondering whether it will decide to throw itself off the edge of the counter as well. Running a hand through his hair after, the other straying up to land on his hip, looking so good as he stands next to where Din’s still seated that he’s caught by the intense desire to just –

To just reach out and pull Cobb down, were the other man willing, and offer his own lap to be used as a seat.

“Fuck,” Halfway through reaching for the smaller kettle he seems to only use when the stall is closed, Cobb’s hand skitters as if scalded, knocking against the cup he’s previously always used for Din, sending it teetering perilously close to the edge, “ _Fuck_.”

“I’ve got it,” Having neatly arranged his own handfuls of sugars and spices next to those Cobb had caught, Din delays his intention to return them all to their proper place in the rack in favour of guiding the cup back to safety.

“Good reflexes,” Huffing a laugh that doesn’t quite manage to conceal the shake beneath it, Cobb hooks an ankle behind him for his own stool, sitting down on it with somewhat less than his usual smoothness. Running that hand back through his hair once again, prompting grey strands to both fluff up and stick out in every direction, while his other hand strays over his mouth, “Much appreciated, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Din’s own fingers curl within his gloves with the effort it takes to repress the urge to reach out and smooth those strands of hair down. Reaches out for the little kettle instead, “Let me help?”

“You sure?” It gets Cobb blinking over at him, hand half dropping from its shielding position, “Damn, I’m sorry; first I make you wait and then –”

“I’d wait for you for as long as you needed,” This time Din’s mouth chooses to go and announce with enough earnestness for him to thoroughly embarrass himself. Halfway through filling the kettle, he just about manages not to drop the water all over them both.

“ _Oh_ ,” Cobb’s eyes widen, his lips parting slightly, his body turning towards Din on his stool, every part of him starting to react –

And some unseen force seems to – to _nudge_ at the kettle, gently moving Din’s wrist and making the water slosh.

Now _that_ wasn’t a ground tremor.

It doesn’t happen again. Even as a wild impulse he only just manages to restrain has Din tempted to blurt ‘ _Are you a Jedi?’_ , Cobb’s seeming to shake himself, quite possibly striving to smooth out a wince while transferring his attention onto determinedly blending a couple of scoops of different varieties of caf in a small dish, that expression of his slipped away somewhere Din can only ache to recall.

He's not the only one to let out a careful breath.

“You know, don’t you worry yourself about what you said just now or about any of it before; I don’t mean to react a little – well, seems you win the prize at catching me off guard,” There’s a hush to the low, unhurried drawl; Cobb apparently recovering from whatever just went on. Din gets a look out of the corner of the other man’s eye; a crook of a smile at the corner of Cobb’s mouth to go with it too, “Not going to make out that it ain’t getting _real_ tempting to respond more, but I know you don’t mean how what you say sometimes comes across – and that’s sure not a problem.”

“I do mean it,” Concentrating hard on placing the kettle on to heat, Din insists just as quietly – and then immediately flusters. Forges on doggedly all the same, both wanting to be seen and not seen, belly tightening equally at the thought of being understood as it does at the prospect of the opposite, “That is, I don’t _not_ mean it, even if I don’t mean to say it. That is –”

The uncharacteristic use of a double negative can only be inspired by the man he’s speaking to, a fact that only serves to trip Din up even further and makes that quirk to Cobb’s mouth deepen that much more, just possibly a helpless reaction on his part too.

“Yeah?” For all the lightness of his tone, the graze of his fingers against Din’s is entirely deliberate, no means of explaining it away as anything other than what it is.

Din’s heart just about stops. Then it starts pounding, all the blood in his body rushing up to flood his face.

Well. Most of it. Because some of it –

Fuck.

“Y-yeah.” What are they even talking about again? _Fuck_.

“You wanna take the caf when it’s done and go walk somewhere with me a bit?” Cobb asks, his tone one of hope rather than expectation, his gaze steady as his fingers tangle ever so slightly with Din’s.

“Yeah. You said I won the prize, didn’t you. So.” There’s only one thing Din can croak in answer to this, isn’t there, even if he succeeds in adding a few more words afterwards as casually as he possibly can. Because – just for Cobb. Din’s powerless not be thinking it, even if he shouldn’t. Not to be thinking –

Anything, _yes_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another slightly longer chapter, all DinCobb :)

Din watches Cobb’s hands, the other man’s movements smooth and sure as he continues to prepare the drinks, none of the earlier uncharacteristic clumsiness left to him now. It’s peaceful sitting there in a way Din almost doesn’t recognise, the sun spilling a red glow over the interior of the stall as it sinks more heavily towards the buildings surrounding the marketplace, birdsong audible from somewhere in the distance now the quiet end of the day seems to be settling over the city. Streets over, people will be starting to prepare or purchase meals, or perhaps just catching up with each other over more of those balconies, the children heading home – if they have one – or finding somewhere safe to curl up for the night.

Maybe it’s foolish of him, but he hopes they have somewhere safe to curl up for the night.

“All right?” Cobb seems to be preparing two different types of drink, if Din has any sort of eye for it – his own attempts have almost always involved basic instant stuff he could just chuck in the lone mug he kept on the Razor Crest and more often than not gulp down far too hot in a snatched half minute between doing other things. The mug gone now along with the small things he ended up collecting for the child, the little frog printed cup Grogu had gazed at with huge eyes longingly on one world until Din gave in and got him it, and then adamantly refused to use to drink from, but adored playing with. Practicing scooping up water in it from a bowl, sometimes sneakily attempting to sprinkle a little of the contents on Din as if checking his caretaker was paying attention; tiny hands going so far one time as to dip fully into the cup and then slap on the outside of Din’s thigh where it wasn’t covered with beskar, Grogu grinning broadly as he admired the damp splodges this created on the flightsuit while Din failed to scrounge up words for a gentle scolding, too busy swallowing his own grin.

Caretaker. Father. What had Grogu thought of him?

What kind of parent can he be when his child has gone?

No. Grogu hasn’t gone. However much it feels like he has; however much the word aches like a truth caught in the marrow of Din’s bones in a way it feels he’ll never recover from, ‘gone’ is at once both accurate and not. When the dark troopers kidnapped Grogu – yes, he was gone then. Stolen. Taken from Din. But now he’s more accurately not gone, but elsewhere. Somewhere better, where he can be safe and learn. While Din had been floundering back then, no time to absorb the fact he was reunited with his child before all too abruptly losing him all over again, he’d made that promise. Letting his son go had been the right thing to do for multiple reasons. He has to believe that. And yet.

Wondering whether he might have done the _wrong_ thing is unbearable, and yet is something a part of Din’s mind has been circling ever since it happened like dragging a fingernail around an open wound again and again.

A breath of cooler air touches the back of his neck above the cowl, one of the many parts of him previously covered, making the impulse rise within him to sink into his shoulders all over again. Some kind of creature prised out of its protective shell, all the soft flesh exposed. Despite the layers he’s wearing, they’re too light – _he_ feels too light and also like he’s become something other than himself, submitting to the impulse to fold his arms inwards lest he find them strayed too far on seeking to move. Unmoored and unravelled; half lost without the weight of beskar his body is accustomed to; set adrift. Without it it’s like he’s missing half his skin.

And yet. And yet this is – this is also _him_. Isn’t it. Without his helmet and armour, he’s just –

Well, he supposes he’s just Din. Whoever that is.

Scrabbling for the peace he’d so briefly felt and snagging on tattooed flames and the subtle play of muscles in Cobb’s forearms and the knobble of bone in each of the other man’s wrists, Din lets himself blink and breathe for a moment. Refocusing. A little tempted to just –

Take his gloves off. Reach out and smooth his palm over monochrome ink. Tangle his first two fingers in the bracelets Cobb wears. Run the ball of his thumb over that wrist bone. Cobb had touched his fingers earlier, just a little. Din could do the same.

Watching carefully as he is, he still startles slightly despite himself when Cobb tips his head to glance over at him. Eyes meeting Din’s – it’s still a shock without the barrier of the visor. Knowing he’s seen right back in return.

Quite possibly it would still be a shock to realise Cobb was looking at him even if Din’s face _wasn’t_ visible and that’s –

Oh hell, he has no idea what his expression is doing. Possibly nothing or a bit of everything. And he’s been staring without realising he was doing as much, hasn’t he. Everywhere he might turn his gaze just so _much_ without the helmet, the galaxy no longer compacted into small slivers of it. Reassuring just to let his gaze rest upon one thing – one person – for as long as he can get away with.

Reassuring – and so very appealing – to just look at Cobb specifically, to let himself fall into watching the other man, a task made all too easy given the attraction curling in Din’s belly at each and every glimpse.

But still.

“I shouldn’t –” Caught in the act, he needs to apologise, “I’m sorry.”

“You mean for watching?” Cobb’s gaze turns inscrutable for a second, before melting into the increasingly familiar sight of his easy smile. “You know, plenty of people come to this stall and sit on the other side of this here counter, and watch me make caf.”

The pause that comes after this is almost tangible, lasting the length of a heavy heartbeat. Din holds himself still and waits, and warns himself it will be all too apparent if he chews the inside of his lip. Wanting to prompt, to ask what comes next and yet –

“But,” Cobb doesn’t keep him waiting for any longer than that, “You’re a special case, aren’t you, trouble.” The appreciative way he says this combined with what's clearly become a nickname makes Din’s ears flare with heat. “So you can sit on _this_ side of the counter here with me and let your eyes rest on whatever they feel like, yeah?”

“Even if it’s your ass?” Din – Din _absolutely should not_ consider saying this and absolutely _does_ say it regardless, the question tripping on out of his mouth right in that suspended instant between thought and intent, escaping before he can snatch it back and shove the words behind the too slow click of his teeth as he snaps his jaw shut.

_Fucking – shit._ Yeah. That. Dank farrik doesn’t feel like it quite covers it somehow.

Cobb’s snort of laughter contains no offence, thank kriff. Doesn’t sound in any way like it’s intended _as_ offence either, at least as far as Din can tell given he’s trying to bury himself in the ground beneath his feet, thinking that right about now would be a useful time for one of those quakes to return and for a convenient hole to turn up for him to toss himself within.

“It’s all for you,” The crook of Cobb’s grin is mirrored in the crinkle of lines like a little kiss to the outside corners of his eyes, the lightly spoken sentence hanging between them for the space of a heady breath Din fails to take in. Then he registers the tiny steaming cup of dark aromatic caf Cobb slides over to him, “Hot stuff.”

Did he just –

Fuck, was that _all for you_ about the caf or – or about _Cobb’s ass?_ And the _hot stuff_. Could that have been –?

Surely it had to have just been about the caf too. Surely Cobb couldn’t have meant it about _Din_ –

Who has no control of the face he’d apparently been born with, staring at the other man all over again, his eyes wide enough he’s forced to blink after only a few suspended seconds of it. Din’s cheeks feeling even redder than that great sun rubbing its belly against the rooftops outside the stall, and his insides – oh, his insides all in a huge hungry tangle of rising _want_.

Better not to think about certain _outside_ parts of his own, damn it, or – or of Cobb’s, _fuck_. Because talk about trouble. Much more of this and Din is _definitely_ going to be in it, indeed.

“Hope you like it,” Cobb’s hand goes out, index finger extended while the others curl in on his palm, dabbing him gently on the nose just as he had earlier, as if just to make Din cross-eyed while the world blurs out of focus all over again. And then Cobb really is talking about the caf, as he just might have been all along, “Not a blend I make for just anyone.”

“O-oh,” Din’s – not just anyone, that’s good to know. Because that has to be a good thing. Right?

“Just for you, in fact,” Okay so Cobb – Cobb is biting _his_ lower lip a little, front teeth making a split second appearance in a manner that makes Din want to get his hand up in return to touch the other man’s mouth and halt their escape. To touch the tip of his thumb to them and to Cobb’s upper lip, to dip in deeper to find that tongue, and –

“Okay shit, sorry, going to need to ask you to just –” Cobb’s blinking a bit abruptly, his tone changing. And shit, there’s a hint of a tremor, isn’t there, right there under the soles of Din’s boots; a tremble of the ground that once again promises greater things. Or threatens them. The tea tins and the jars of sugar and spices starting up a quiet clatter against each other where they sit, Cobb making a small noise, sounding a little fraught, “I can’t –”

“Are you okay?” _It is you doing this. Isn’t it._ The thought slams into Din with the feeling of a suspicion that’s been held for some time newly confirmed, even as he watches closely to check that Cobb nods, the other man squinting at the small kettle as if daring it to take it upon itself to do anything – or just possibly preventing it from doing as much.

Somehow.

Din wants to take hold of the other man’s shoulders and – well, a great many things. But to ask about this, even if he shouldn’t ask – or do – anything of the other things he so wants.

Yet for all Din’s increasingly certain of Cobb’s potentially inadvertent ability, Grogu hadn’t done anything similar to this despite his immense talent and nor had Ahsoka, that Din is aware of. And who knows about the unnamed man, the one who took Grogu away.

No. That Grogu left with of his own volition. There’s a difference.

_You’re not a Jedi, are you. But perhaps something similar._ Taking a shallow breath in as the tremor recedes, Din test-thinks to Cobb and doesn’t receive a flicker of an eyelid in return, which is, given the colour of a whole lot of Din’s recent thoughts, admittedly a relief.

Although it could be Din himself being as Force-sensitive as a root vegetable; it’s possible Cobb would require someone with the same ability in order to pass around thoughts like audible conversation. Or perhaps he just doesn’t possess the inclination.

For all he’s known the other man for less time than it feels, Din can’t imagine Cobb simply not listening. In which case, if Cobb can’t hear Din’s somewhat single-focused internal monologue – what then had happened to cause his reaction and the ground to shiver with that little quake?

“Right,” Pinching the bridge of his nose briefly, Cobb grimaces mildly, “Let’s just – say that’s not going to happen again.” Something much like a plea in his expression when he glances at Din, “Are you going to drink your caf?”

“Yeah,” Din can well recognise discomfort along with the desire not to talk about something, “Didn’t mean to – let it go cold. Thanks.”

“Should still be warm enough.”

That grimace melts into a smile Din has to take a breath in on seeing. Forcing himself to drag his attention down to the drink and finding it still softly steaming as promised, he gives in to an impulse and slowly removes a glove, feeling almost outside of himself.

Cobb has to be aware of this divestment, hasn’t he, for all he half turns to collect his own drink as if to give Din – or them both – a bit of space to collect themselves.

Determinedly attempting to steady himself, Din nonetheless wraps his bare hand around the tiny cup a bit more cautiously than he intends, almost flinching at the heat despite having prepared himself for it – the heat and the smooth shiny texture – hissing under his breath.

The caf smells _incredible_.

Still, without the HUD and filters within the helmet, Din has little hope of breaking down the scent beyond ‘ _good_ quality and ‘ _yes_ ’, a fact he comes to suspect might be reflected in the dizzy gulp of air he drags in, his lungs belatedly registering the fact they again require oxygen. Managing to just about not dump the drink in his lap, intensely conscious of Cobb glancing back at him, eyebrow rising a fraction, his gaze then dropping to Din’s mouth as Din brings the cup up to his lips.

Shit. Shit. He’s powerless not to consider Cobb’s own mouth in return.

The caf is easily the best Din’s ever tasted, rich and _strong_ in a way that explains the small serving, the rush of it feeling like it floods straight up to his brain. Cobb’s drinking his own tiny cupful, head going back a little, throat moving in a graceful swallow. Would he –

If Din were to kiss him. Cobb would probably. He would taste of it, wouldn’t he.

“ _Din_ –” This gets Cobb straightening up on his stool, tossing the rest of his caf back like it’s spotchka or whiskey, perhaps – and then he’s _looking_ at Din, looking at him in a way he hasn’t before, as if he sees right through into the heart of him and likes what he sees. A look that bursts like a supernova inside Din and he almost reaches out, almost catches hold of Cobb’s free hand in return, almost grips his shoulder and draws him in.

Almost. Almost.

“ _You’re killing me here_ ,” Din thinks he hears Cobb choke, but that can’t be, he must be mishearing. Or – is he.

“Look,” Cobb’s still talking, so perhaps he _is_ mistaken. The other man launching into movement, pouring the other drinks he’d made into a couple of canteens he digs out from elsewhere under the counter. His hands seeming a bit unsteady in a way Din’s not entirely sure he sees, given it could be due to his _own_ unsteadiness and raw, unreliable vision. “We – ah. We were meant to be stepping out for that walk, yeah? Are you still good with that? I know –” A pause, like he’s not sure whether to say this. Softer. Very genuine, “I know you’ve been feeling real bad a lot of the time. I sure don’t want to hasten you into anything you’re not ready for. Or to push in any way.”

“It’s a walk,” Din insists, slight stubbornness flaring, although it’s _not_ a walk, not exactly, is it. Or at least the furious beat of his heart and shiver to his skin both want to convince him of this. “Of course I want to – step out with you.”

Even that determinedly innocent comment instead feels loaded.

“Thank the stars,” The grin he gets from Cobb for this makes him tingle all over, “All right. I’ll just see to things here, shut the stall down for the night real quick.” Pushing up from his stool, he holds out his hand in offer to help Din up from his.

Din doesn’t technically need the assistance. Still very much wants to take that hand all the same. Faced by an unexpected choice, his glove next to his emptied cup on the counter, hand still bare from his fingertips all the way up to his wrist. The thought –

The thought of not only touching Cobb, but of touching Cobb’s bare skin – The thought of Cobb touching _Din’s_ bare skin –

Aside from touching Grogu and Grogu touching him, it’s been _years_. Well over a decade since Din last directly felt the touch of another that he both agreed to and wanted.

“Let me help you tidy up,” Drawing in another steadying breath, he reaches out to accept that hand.


End file.
